Wordieword’s Weblog

I’m a bit tired, and that would be an understatement. We provide the fire with kindling it needs as the night proceeds. Jose is given the task, but we all end up doing it, since its fun to walk into the woods looking collecting sticks in the dark, friend or not. We’d go two and three at a time. Laughs shook the forest. It was the type of scene that makes horror film writers get especially excited. It was also the type of scene that would not go anywhere particularly horrific. Makes me wonder why I talk about it at all. You must know the feeling, that feeling where you just remember something and are not completely sure why it’s important, but are struck with the impression nonetheless. At times like this I tend to get a little freudian. Allow me to associate, as freely as I can. First, the woods. Dark and full of sleepy life. Teeth around the corner. A bloody mess– a possibility. Certainly some sticks. Definitely some knowledge and joy. But what about me? Slightly alienated, always a step away from the rest. I reveal more that I want to reveal when I least suspect it. Certainly not a smooth operator. I wish to be more than I am, don’t we all. Engrossed by the sticks. Are they dicks? Not freud’s strongest point, I think. The sticks remind me of childhood, when we’d fight with them, and break things with them, and break them if they couldn’t break what we were trying to break. Or maybe he was on to something…? And now they are our break, the reason for our bonding. Which makes me think of chemistry, and why not? Is it not worth thinking about? Makes me wonder what exactly the therapeutic worth of this whole process is… For it to work, I guess I need to be directed, possibly other-directed, and why not if nothing else works.

So I’m sexually frustrated as per usual. Why not mention it, I mention everything of importance on this bizarre thing called blog… what a horrible sound. So I quit smoking, which I’d started just a couple of weeks after I started school here. I’m now an alcoholic. I’m sort of getting concerned. I drank something like 3/4ths of a liter of gin today, all day. I’m always falling for impossible things. They’re so much better than The Real, no? I’m losing my composure, and that might be a good thing. I don’t know. I live with an old woman, and death is in the air on a daily basis whether I want to admit it or not. I try to make her feel better about herself and and up feeling shitty about myself, while she continues along her path as deep as her life, and I upon mine as shallow as it is. No matter, i wonder when it will end, and it’s only natural for the rational.

So many thoughts, and they all reek of melodrama. I guess. My meter for these sorts of things is off. +-infinity as far as I’m concerned. I know I’m coming off depressed, but its a dull existence that I lead. “Existence,” what a dirty word. So simple, and I wished for more. My mind is not what I wanted it to be. Cheers to that, homes. Houses, whatever. And no matter how much psychologists attempt to convince me that happiness, or its pursuit, is not that important I can’t help but disagree. Nothing personal, of course.

I’m tired, so tired.

Hmm, I guess there is much to be said about not taking yourself too seriously. I’m not sure I’ll say it. Everything important has been said already, no. No! ?

It’s not what you say, its how you say it. How reassuring.

Fickle.

freest. 15m

–1945
Gelatin on an old man’s tray.

Old man: “Jell-o, OK!”

Yeah, right. Right?

Spoon to mouth existence, certainly. What about it? Its a good way to insert something chewable into the toothless bastard’s diet. Hell, you can fortify it with vitamins. Why not?

I’m tired of this job. I need life. Green grow the rushes, ey! I’m still green, that’s what everyone says. And they say it like its a bad thing. I stay green. I like it that way. Its all so simple when you’re green. That’s the color I’d die for.

Its got to end. Life is limited, just like opportunities. Opportunities are a life of their own, in their own way.

A little birdy let me speak out the windows of my cell through its graceful flight, my messages were transmitted, to the worrisome little kitten. I, so tired of my world of sin, renounced it–the world, for the flights of fancy. The bird refuses to renounce the universe, and still fancies flying. I make a virtue out of habits which I don’t possess, and reach for it in duress, while others grab it without the slightest hesitation, but me and my cellmates unite in this frustration. Sloppy seconds, and tertiary lepers make the lowest noises possible, in this world of open madness.

See, in our not so distant past, there was a method through which heroes were created. Its something of a cult actually. First thing you have to do is embrace death as the probable necessity of your cause. Then you have to train yourself to hold on for your life to an ideal. Next you have to define strictly what you will let go of, so that nothing can separate you from your life in this ideal, and lastly you have to persevere, to your likely death. Your immortality is guaranteed.

Supposedly. I am still flirting with that first step, and what keeps stopping me from embracing it is the last promise. God, maybe you can explain it to me through your mysterious silent signs. Immortality sure escapes memory.

And so I am tirelessly driving my wagon, in a fractured state. My 82 Honda feels like my teeth, in need of a check-up. My racial status is clearly marked out. I’m white like the grand imperial ghost, and if I spent money to fry under a machine, I’d be tan like light toast. I want to impregnate a dark woman and create some mongrels. Maybe one day the races will vanish. Will the tensions persist? In the meanwhile I enjoy the benefits which are vanishing. Maybe one day there will be peace, but for now I choose the path of ignorance.

See, there was another man who the silent majority remains silent about. I will also remain silent to honor the current tradition, at least as regards his name. He advocated the total and maximal learning of ignorance. In other words, let us not shy away from revealing to ourselves our total ignorance of the universe, and hence by becoming maximally ignorant, we through the coincidence of opposites in God become what we can be.

This is my ideal. But of course this is not what I mean when I say I choose the path of ignorance. Following Tradition, I choose the noble path of Ignorance, of the conventional sort that is. For example, I have no idea how to repair my Honda. No idea at all. I pay people for that. I pay the god damn top dollar in fact. Nothing can stop me. Except reality, of course. But in my dreams and day dreams I AM UNSTOPPABLE. Can you dig?

Oh, fuck, I missed a turn.

Anyway. As I said, I drive people for a living. It pays enough. Statues dissolve in the acid rain of our concrete jungle. Can you dig?

There we go, the parking lot. We’ve arrived. And you, now you must roam somewhere else, try Harold Square or something. Shoot, out of here!

–2110